Gone
by teacandles
Summary: Sometimes there are no warnings. Sometimes people are just gone, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. A look at grief.


Author's notes: Newest story that hit me like a ton of bricks. Also, I should have the next chapter of _Visions_ up in the next couple of days. I'm still not completely over my block on it, but I think I know now where I want it to go. Beware, this one's kind of heavy.

* * *

It was kind of stupid, really.

It was just a chair. Nothing special. They all had one just like it, even Artie, though his was more for show than anything else. It was a plain, ugly, brownish plastic chair with a hole in the back, just like the ones they used everywhere else in the school. It had half a vulgar word scratched into its side and a rainbow of old, tar—like gum stuck to its bottom, just out of reach of the smooth metal legs. Remnants from the long, sordid past of a public school chair.

It was nothing special. Just a chair. Just like a thousand others in every classroom throughout the school

But it stood there in the back of the choir room like a pariah; no one dared touch it. Certainly no one sat in it.

It remained there, day after day, week after week, completely empty, exactly the same. Like the room of a child who had gone missing. The smallest detail exactly as it had been left. Nothing out of place.

Mr. Schuester didn't pester the group about it, even though the behavior bothered him more than he cared to admit. Emma had talked him out of doing anything drastic. The kids just needed some time to separate themselves from what had happened. And he got where they were coming from, but really, it was just a chair. It wasn't the person who was supposed to be filling it. It wasn't the flesh and bone and soul they were hoping for. Just a chair, nothing more.

And as badly as he wanted to scream and yell at them to get it together, he said nothing because perhaps this was their way of coping, their collective way of dealing. Students came in and out of his life all the time—this was only a little different for him. He'd lost a student, as he did with every graduation, with every transfer, pregnancy and family emergency. His kids had lost a friend.

And so, even as time marched on and the wounds began to heal, the school year drew to a close and the chair remained empty. They just couldn't bear to fill in that hole.

It felt too much like they were trying to replace her.

Mercedes Jones was gone, and she wasn't coming back.

* * *

Tuesday morning had dawned cold and grey just as it had the past couple of mornings. A light drizzle had started to fall with the rising sun and coated everything in a bright sheen of water. The air was getting colder, and the ground was starting to freeze; it was going to snow. The only question was when.

The students were bundled up in warm winter coats and hats to ward off the chill, and even those who could always be found hanging just outside, loitering or ditching class or just enjoying the sun, could be found in the groups of students lining the halls of the school, huddled together in their familiar social cliques like sheep.

Just another day at William McKinley High School.

The glee kids filed into the room in clusters, chatting about music and crushes and upcoming tests. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until Mr. Schuester walked in.

His face was more solemn than usual as he walked up to the piano and set his belongings on the ground. He hated having to do things like this, but it was part of being a teacher.

"Okay, guys. Settle down. I have something I need to tell you all."

The room quieted slowly, the words dying down to muted whispers. The kids glanced back and forth to one another, not really sure what was going on.

"What's wrong, Mr. Schue? You look kind of upset." asked Finn softly, breaking the silence. Was this about regionals? Had they been disqualified or something?

"Mercedes is in the hospital."

"What?" No one had taken much notice, but her seat was indeed empty. She hadn't been feeling well yesterday—a stomach bug or something—so it wasn't that much of a surprise to see her gone, but in the hospital?

"What happened?"

Will put his hands up and tried to calm them down. "It's nothing overly serious. Just appendicitis. She went in yesterday afternoon and had her appendix removed. Now, the good news is that the surgery went okay, and she seems to be on the mend."

"So, she's going to be okay?"

"Yes, she's going to be just fine, and her parents wanted me to let you guys know that she's up for visitors this afternoon before she gets released if you wanted to go see her."

"Will she be able to sing when she gets back?"

"Yes, but she has to take it easy for a while. We won't have our powerhouse back right away, but don't worry. She's going to be just fine."

* * *

Quinn leaned back against the soft padding of her seat. It felt so different from the hard backs of the pews she was used to, like a warm embrace instead of a firm hand against her back. No wonder Mercedes had spent so much time here. Seven thirty on a Thursday night. Her mother didn't understand why she insisted on doing this every week. She closed her eyes and let the soft tones of the choir wash over her as they rose and fell with song. The chords were full and sweeping, the words saturated with a sad sort of longing. It hurt to listen, but Quinn needed this.

She didn't really know these people and they didn't really know her. She was a little out of place here—a little white stain in a sea of browns and tan—but no one cared all that much. This was God's house. Every person was one of God's children. Everyone was welcome here.

Choir practice.

She'd asked the director, a comely older woman with a sweet, lilting voice, a week ago if she could sit in and listen to them practice. She'd responded with a slightly sad smile, curious if Quinn was interested in joining.

No, she hadn't wanted to join. Just listen. She needed this. It helped her cope.

She looked up at the large, sweeping arches overhead and imagined the wood crumbling into chunks and pieces, falling down into the aisles and the chairs, _everywhere_, to be filled and replaced with something so much more beautiful. Like gold or mother-of-pearl. Something precious to properly accent how she felt about this place, how she knew Mercedes had felt about this place when she was still alive.

The song changed to something slower but not quite as somber, and Quinn had trouble breathing. There was so much hope here, in this place, in the music, in these people, it was almost unbearable.

This was God's house. Quinn was one of God's children, and Mercedes was her sister. She was in a better place now. Quinn needed to believe that. She was somewhere where there was no more pain, no more sorrow. No more suffering.

Quinn wouldn't cry for Mercedes, her friend, her sister in love and in faith.

Mercedes wasn't gone.

She'd only just gone home.

* * *

She was awake and smiling when they piled into her room in the hospital.

"Hey, guys. What's up?"

Artie snorted at the question with a smile of his own. "What's up with you, girl? You know better than to scare us like this."

She shrugged. "Yeah, well, you know how it goes. Got to keep things fresh if we're going to place at regionals."

"Maybe not this 'fresh,'" muttered Rachel with a grin. "You feeling okay?"

"A little tired. A little sore. I _did_ have surgery yesterday, you know."

"Oh, we know." Rachel moved up close to the bed and leaned over to give her friend a loose-armed hug. "You get better and we'll see you on Thursday, okay?"

"Yeah, girl. I'll see you then."

* * *

Rachel never told anyone, but she loved dancing far more than she did singing.

Oh, she was certainly a better singer than she was a dancer—there was no chance for her on the dance stage, especially when compared to natural talent like Brittany or Mike—but there was something freeing in dance that she never quite got from singing.

She could let herself go, lose herself in the spins and jumps and forget her worries. The dizzy rush of a blurry room passing her by as she moved made any pain she had not seem quite so real. And the activity made her thirsty. She never really knew anymore if she was sad or thirsty, and she preferred it that way. It was easier to take away the edge with a quick drink than it was to deal with the sadness.

Of course, alcohol erased everything, both the thirst and the pain. She needed to watch herself in the future. A little now and then might not hurt, but it was too habit-forming. She wanted to be a star, yes, but she didn't want to become one because she was a recovering alcoholic. Thanks but no thanks.

She finished the latest routine her instructor had given her and slowed to a stop, holding herself up against the bar tacked onto the wall. Her sweaty, red face stared back at her from the ceiling-high mirrors. The girl in the glass looked upset. Rachel turned away from her and slid down onto the floor. She grabbed her water bottle from where it sat beside her and fiddled with the top, flipping it open and shut in a steady beat. Almost like the sound of her pounding heart echoing loudly in her ears.

This was wrong.

Dancing wasn't working. It always worked before. Even with Jesse. Why wasn't it working now?

_Complications._

_Infection._

She didn't understand. They'd given her a clean bill of health; she'd seemed perfectly fine when Rachel had visited her. Both times, even. There had been nothing wrong.

Rachel unscrewed the cap of her water bottle entirely and placed it beside her on the floor, not really caring if it picked up whatever germs and dirt might be lurking there. She put the plastic to her lips and was relieved at the cool rush of water flooding her mouth, her throat.

She'd lost her friend. One of her best friends in fact. All in an instant, it seemed, but she was okay.

Rachel Berry wasn't sad. Stars couldn't afford to wallow in grief. No, she was thirsty was all. Rachel was just thirsty. She gulped down the last of it with a great heaving breath and leaned back against the mirror.

Mercedes was dead and that was that. Nothing Rachel could do about it. She wasn't sad. No, not at all.

All she needed was a little more water, and things would be okay.

* * *

They should have known something was wrong when Mercedes wasn't back in school on Thursday like they'd predicted.

It was odd, and the glee kids questioned Rachel, who had stopped by her house the day before to check up on her, see how she was doing, and really, she'd been fine. Still a little under the weather, but things were looking up. There'd been no warning signs to tell her of the sudden fever she'd spike during the night or the uncontrolled vomiting that followed.

They hadn't known anything was wrong until they walked into glee to find a shaky Ms. Pillbury standing with Mr. Schuester.

"Mercedes passed away last night. There were complications with her surgery, an infection, and she didn't make it."

* * *

Kurt had nearly gone into shock when he got the text from Rachel. It was a joke. Some sort of terrible, sick joke from Rachel to get her on his bad side again, but something held him back. He needed to know if this was real. The texts were sent out quick and discrete and the answers he'd gotten would have brought him to his knees had he been standing. He'd gone up to his teacher, shaking and trying hard to keep himself together and asked to be excused. The last thing he wanted was to burst into tears in the middle of English class.

Blaine had found him up in his room when he hadn't come down to Warblers practice. You didn't skip rehearsal without telling someone first. You had to have commitment to be a part of the group, and missing out on valuable practice time was not taken lightly by the council.

Blaine had thought he'd find Kurt trying to catch up on homework or getting in some last-minute cramming or something like that, and he'd simply lost track of time. It happened to everyone now and again. He hadn't expected to find him curled up on his bed in the dark, his hair all rumpled and his face wet with tears.

"Kurt, what happened?"

Kurt hadn't said a word, just handed Blaine his cell phone. It was open to his inbox for text messages. The newest ones were from Rachel—he recognized the number. Okay. News from home. Blaine opened it and nearly fell to the floor himself. He'd been prepared for a lot of things, but not for something like that.

_Mercedes died last night. They want to kno if nd will sing at the funeral. Call me.

* * *

_

There was something missing from their numbers. Yeah, it was obvious that they were short one member, but New Directions just didn't sound right.

Sam was the newest member besides Lauren, but she had known the people in the group for far longer. He was just some freshman transfer. She'd gone to middle school with them. She'd seen them in the halls and passed them by in the lunchroom. Hell, she'd basically grown up with these guys. Sam was something of an outsider still, and that made this whole affair really, really awkward.

It wasn't that he had particularly liked or disliked Mercedes. It was hard to have an opinion about someone when you never really knew them. There were cliques within cliques here, groups within groups. Mercedes hadn't really been a part of his group.

Sure, when he'd been dating Quinn they'd gotten together sometimes with the girl, but all she and Quinn talked about was Jesus and stuff. Jesus was cool and all, but not really something Sam wanted to talk about with his friends. He and Mercedes never really clicked.

So it was weird the day after they'd been handed the news. He couldn't walk down the halls or sit in a classroom without some sort of reminder that there was one less student at McKinley High.

Sam couldn't concentrate. It was really hard to go about his day when there were girls holding each other and sobbing quietly against the walls of lockers in the hallway every time he had to walk to class. It was weird that people were either giving the glee kids a super wide berth or randomly approaching them for hugs and condolences. Sam didn't know what to do.

Sure, it was sad. No one should have to die that young. And so suddenly, too, but damn. Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone about it? He didn't really know her when she was alive, most of those people roaming the halls moaning and weeping about the tragedy of it all hadn't even given her more than a passing glance. Why did it suddenly matter that she was dead? That she wasn't coming back? They'd all forget she'd ever existed in a month anyway.

He knew that he shouldn't feel sad because he really hadn't known Mercedes outside of the time they spent together in glee, and even that wasn't very much. They were too different, had never really connected, and that was fine.

Sam didn't want to grieve for the sassy girl with the powerful voice because he hadn't really known her as anything more than that. It felt too much like cheating.

And Sam was anything but a cheater.

* * *

Her brother came by the week after her death to collect her belongings from her locker. People watched as he took out notebooks and pencils and colorful little shelves that had once organized her things, but no one dared approach him.

Some new kid had her locker the next year, and the wary looks and hushed whispers died down after the first couple of days. No one wanted a dead kid's locker, but life moved on. People forgot.

And the chair in the choir room remained unfilled, a silent little monument to the last person to sit there.


End file.
